Memoir Final Draft

Core Assignment 1 – The Memoir

Drafting Process

It was the fall of 1999. The Y2K scares of the New Millennium were just around the corner. Bill Clinton was President, and Lance Armstrong had just earned his first Tour de France victory. Yet, the most the small town of Bradenton, Florida had to worry about was a head-lice outbreak at my local elementary school. I was in third grade. An eight-year-old full of questions and adventure, I was sitting cross-legged in Ms. Julie’s class, waiting for the clock to hit 3:00 p.m. so I could go home and play. My grandma was coming into town that day and I was very excited to see her, for she only visited from North Carolina two or three times a year. Grandma was loaded, and gave us a $100.00 check for our birthday and Christmas, which basically were the only times we saw her; but, she was also fun. She was an over-weight woman who was (and still is) full of laughter. I remember we would always tell her that she wasn’t fat but that she was pleasantly plump, and she would always laugh hysterically. She has the type of laugh that makes you laugh when you hear it, which ignites a vicious cycle of tears and cringed faces. But I couldn’t enjoy any of this, for I was stuck listening to Ms. Julie.

The principal of our school was standing beside Ms. Julie as they preached the seriousness of this head-lice outbreak to my third grade class. There were only ten minutes left of school - I knew this because I was counting down. I could already see my mom sitting outside the window in her car, waiting to pick me up, but I was stuck behind closed doors learning about lice that I didn’t even have.

The principal’s name was Janice Mattina, a playful, yet strict woman in her mid-forties who was proud to have embedded the “Montessori Method” into her school, The Center for Education. This meant that every child could work at his/her own pace and either fall behind or excel. I hated my “Montessori school”. It was a school that ranged from a toddler program up through eighth grade, and still consisted of only two hundred or so students. I found out at a very young age, that the school didn’t make very much money off the tuition costs from the minimal student population. Accordingly, Janice could not afford to hire very many teachers, and the teachers that the school had were forced to teach multiple subjects. This non-specialized system of teaching resulted in me becoming mediocre in every field of study; and I wasn't even one of the students that "fell behind". I hated the majority of my teachers due to frustration in my subjects, and asking questions that couldn’t be answered. Being resentful, I would even refuse to come in from recess; kicking, punching, and screaming at whoever would make any disciplinary attempt. I became a sort of rebel, fighting the power of my government and sticking it to "the man". Janice was "the man" and easily fell into one of these categories, especially since she used the tuition money to buy her multiple Mercedes, rather than better our school. And right now she was standing before me telling us how we need to live our lives, how to wash our hair, and how to safely play with our friends without becoming contaminated.

She said, “I’m sending home with you a very fine comb that is designed to remove lice from your hair, along with a flyer that tells your parents all about our little talk that we had today.” Ms. Julie quickly added, “This is a very serious matter and you guys need to be responsible. Make sure that you give these to your mom and dad.” They handed the papers and combs out to us and I was finally free to go. I rushed out of the glass doors and into the parking lot to my mom’s car. I quickly jumped in, excited to finally be out of school, and we headed home. My mom and I went through the usual, “How was your day at school?” and “Boring as usual! I hate my school.” speech until we finally got home.

My grandma’s car was in the driveway and she was already inside having a drink with my dad. Before the car was all the way in the garage, I unlocked my door, opened it and jumped out. I always rode on the right hand side of the car in the back seat for a reason, so I could do just this. I was right-handed and could quickly jump out of my mom’s car before she had time to protest my actions. I was a very smart kid. I pulled open the back door of my house, left it open, and ran for grandma. I jumped into her arms with all my might and gave her a “bear-hug”, squeezing her as tightly as I could. She almost fell over. She repeated the same lecture that I had just received from my mom about school, asking how it was and how I needed to be respectful to my teachers because they were only trying to help me. “I pay a lot of money for you kids to go to that school, and you need to pay attention, okay?”, she exclaimed. At this point, I was in autopilot and instinctively responded, “Yes grandma, I will.” She noted, “All right, now there’s a good boy. I love you so much honey, now run off and play while me and your dad have a drink.” Excited again, I responded, “Okay grandma, I love you too.” and I ran outside to play. I was back in the garage again, and my mom was just now coming in through the back door. As I ran by her, I unenthusiastically commented, “Oh yeah, here’s some lice thing Janice gave us at school. She told me to give it to you.” I moved on to find something to do.

I was standing alone in the garage moving in circles, looking for something to play with. For some reason, none of my usual toys and sports paraphernalia were good enough today. I began to move towards the other side of the garage where my dad kept his tools. I walked along the counter, which was as tall as I was, until I came upon the grill, where I found a book of matches. I leaned forward onto my "tippie-toes" and was barely able to grasp them with the very tips of my fingers. I stood flat and held them in my hand, full of curiosity. My whole life, I had learned through trial and error, and I decided to play with the matches, not thinking twice about it. I walked along the worn grassy path to my back yard very slowly, studying the contents of this new toy. It was a white box and on the outside it read “Congratulations Bruce and Cheri”, as if it were from a wedding. I assumed they were my parents' friends and that it was very old, considering the faded color and beaten shape that it was in. I continued to wander along staring at what lay in my hands before me until I was hidden away behind my father's barn. Florida was in the middle of a very long drought and it didn’t take me long to find a nice, dry, brown patch of grass. I opened the book and pulled out one of the remaining ten matches that were left and struck it against the grain so that it lit. I had seen people light a match before and knew how it was done. Crouching down on my knees, I threw the match into the dry patch of grass and within seconds, I soon learned that I was a pyromaniac. One after another, I struck a match and threw it into the grass until there were no matches left. It started as a small, weak flare, but once the wind caught the bright red and flames, the fire began to quickly expand. Before I knew it, I had successfully created a raging fire, of which I was very proud. Knowing that I needed a quick getaway, I sprinted back into the house and towards my room. Before I could make it there, my grandma called, “Austin, will you come here please?” I knew I was in trouble and slowly walked into the living room where she was sitting in a chair waiting for me. She pulled out the very fine comb and paper that I had given my mom and said, “I want to check your head for lice.” Relieved, I walked over and sat on her knee as she began to run her fingers and the comb through my hair.

Within a few seconds, she put each of her hands on my shoulders and turned me towards her. She looked at me and very seriously asked, “Austin, why does your hair smell like smoke?”